


Sweet Nothings

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: F/F, Torna: The Golden Country DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:08:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25496593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Mythra tries to confess, though it may be a bit too late.
Relationships: Brighid/Mythra, Brighid/Mòrag Ladair
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	Sweet Nothings

**Author's Note:**

> not much to say about this one! i found it in my massive pile of discarded wips from ages ago (i think back when i beat torna for the first time?) and decided to give it a proper finish

“Here. Take it.”

Brighid stares at the crumpled charm in Mythra’s hand. She doesn’t say anything, only raises one brow with a questioning look— _questioning_ , not curious, like she suspects a trick of some kind.

“Take it!” Mythra says again, gesturing insistently.

“Why should I?”

She… didn’t think this out thoroughly enough. Mythra curses inwardly and swallows back that weird feeling in her throat, rendering her unable to articulate all those swarming thoughts and uncertainties that brought her to this moment. What is that. Embarrassment? That’s stupid, Aegises like her are above such things.

Or so she used to think, long before she met any of these clowns.

It’s stupid, is what it is. She’d even made the horrible mistake of asking Addam for advice before mustering the nerve to speak to Brighid. Somehow, even when she’d worded the question as vaguely as possible to avoid suspicion, he’d gotten the gist of it— then launched into a long, teary story about how he had courted his wife, back when she was but a simple mucker hauling bales of hay and swinging a scythe around in fields of wheat. She shoveled Armu dung onto his boots! Armu dung! He laughed for a while about that until Mythra became fed up and left without a single piece of useful information she could use to her advantage.

At least Brighid isn’t likely to shovel manure at her. Probably.

“It’s for _you_ , duh.” Mythra shakes the crudely-made charm at her. It’s misshapen and not very well put together, and it might be on the verge of falling apart because of how Mythra had been holding it in her fist, but she’s proud to say she made it _all by herself_ without intervention from Lora. Well, Haze did try to fix it for her, but Mythra insisted that it should be made by her hands alone.

Charms could be many things, according to Lora. Trinkets of good luck. Wards to repel bad spirits. Gifts to express feelings that cannot be told in words alone.

Mythra realized that if she tried to give one of her homemade dishes to Brighid, Brighid might mistake it as a declaration of war.

As if her food is even that bad! Everyone else just has bad taste.

But that’s beside the point.

Because she needed to get these feelings out before they bottled up inside her until she burst and she can’t have _that_ happening, especially when they’re supposed to fight Malos tomorrow. Oh, yeah. They’re going to fight Malos tomorrow. And here she is, trying to sort through these weird, alien feelings and shoving a stupid charm at Brighid to take.

“Is this a joke? Are you trying to mock me?” Brighid’s eyes would probably be narrowed if she ever bothered to open them. Ugh— she pisses off Mythra, she gets under her skin in ways not even Addam or Milton do, but somehow she thought— all this time, that it was hatred, but it’s _not._ She doesn’t _hate_ Brighid. Brighid is annoying and haughty and completely full of herself, but if anything, that only means she’s a worthy adversary for someone like Mythra.

No one else could possibly compare.

“In any other situation, yes.” Mythra says, putting on her most deadpan glare. Just for Brighid. She waves the charm at her face. “But we’ve got more important things to think about, right? Consider this a good luck charm.”

Brighid sniffs. “ _Luck_ won’t compensate for a lack of foresight or strategy in battle.”

“Okay, fine, it’s not a good luck charm!” She quickly lowers her voice when she notices Jin lifting his head to glance over at them. But it’s only Jin, and he doesn’t care, so he turns away again just as quickly. Whew. Mythra takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. “I just… don’t think I ever properly said _thanks_. For… everything. Ugh, don’t make me go into detail.”

“… It’s a gift?”

“Of course it is! That’s what I’ve been trying to say!”

If Brighid sneers or insults her or laughs at her, then maybe… maybe that wouldn’t be so terrible, Mythra thinks to herself. She can deal with being rebuffed. What she can’t deal with is figuring out how to navigate the ins and outs of _feelings_ , especially when these feelings are so intimately intwined with frustration and annoyance. If Brighid doesn’t feel the same way then that’s just one less thing to worry about, and then they can put all their focus into figuring out how to beat up Malos.

Brighid says nothing for a long, long moment. Then she takes the charm, gingerly holding it up between two fingers, and faintly smiles. “I could use it as a bookmark for my journal, I suppose.”

“Good. Great! Fine, do whatever you want with it.”

“You’ve grown, since the first time we met,” Brighid says, tilting her head. “Of course, you’re still the same bullheaded, temperamental, boorish imbecile…”

“Seriously?”

“But you learned a lot, haven’t you?” Brighid’s smile isn’t quite as condescending as Mythra had expected. It’s nice. “After we defeat Malos, let’s have a proper rematch. One on one, no Drivers, and without interruption from Haze. I’ll give you a proper response to your confession regardless of the victor. I think you deserve that much, at the very least.”

The lumpy feeling in her throat is replaced by something else. Something welling up. Damnit, that better not be vomit. Mythra balls her fists at her sides and nods, trying not to look too excited.

* * *

_She never gave you her answer, did she?_

Don’t bring that up now. It doesn’t matter anymore. That was five hundred years ago and she’s not the same Blade as she was back then.

_Maybe she wrote something down._

Be quiet.

_Look._

Sitting around a campfire like this is nearly reminiscent of those old days, now that their little group has gained two more allies. All these familiar faces are popping up one after the other like it’s a sick joke. Pyra encountered Jin and Minoth. Then Mythra stood face to face against Mikhail, met Fan la Norne for the very first time, and now things have finally settled down and she can think of Brighid being… here. A sick joke, indeed. Who’s she gonna run into next? Addam’s ghost?

Brighid is sitting away from the rest of the group, writing in her journal by the light of her own flames.

_You should go sit with her._

Stop trying to offer advice, would you?

Lora said that charms could be gifted as a sign of affection. Or something like that. That’s why Mythra had sought out her help all those centuries ago, while their party rested around a campfire exchanging stories and eating food that Jin and Aegaeon prepared together. Those were warm nights. Lora was steady with a needle and knew how to thread cotton, and how to treat wild roots and leaves and what-nots for her charms. It took Mythra three attempts to cobble something presentable enough even with Lora’s thorough instruction.

What did she gather back then…? Some moss and ivy. Quartz. Leaves from a holly plant. Puzzletree wood and a branch of cotton. Pyra seems mildly surprised that Mythra remembers all that.

Well, it _was_ for an important cause.

“You go talk to her then, Pyra. She likes _you._ ”

Pyra disagrees, but obliges and takes Mythra’s place anyway. She wanders over to stand beside Brighid, not behind her, because it’d be rude to pretend she’s trying to read what she’s writing over her shoulder.

“Hello, Pyra. Did you need something?” Brighid closes her journal shut, but Pyra had already zeroed in on that faded, frayed thing she’s using as a bookmark before it disappeared from view.

Mythra makes a pained noise in their head.

“I just wanted to let you know that dinner is almost ready. I made stew tonight, with help from Dromarch and Poppi. They caught the fish for us.”

“That sounds lovely. I’ll be over in a minute.”

“Say…” Pyra folds her hands behind her back and sways on her heels. Oh, she’s so good at that sort of disarming act, completely unlike Mythra. “I was wondering about what you’ve written in your journal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking if I can read it! But… did you write about what happened during the Aegis War?”

“Hm… not a complete record of the big picture. I try to focus on my own personal thoughts about daily events when I write in my journal.” Brighid furrows her brow. “I wasn’t around for the aftermath, but I think I know how that war really ended. … Is that what you wanted to talk about, Pyra?”

“No, no—“ Pyra quickly waves her hands in front of her, laughing awkwardly. “That’s not it at all. I was just a little curious.”

“… If you say so.”

“Anyway, I couldn’t help but notice that old bookmark,” Pyra smoothly says, ignoring Mythra’s increasingly louder groans. “It doesn’t look like it was of Ardainian design. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, that old thing.” Brighid stands up, and the two of them make their way back to the campfire. “Actually, I don’t know where it came from. But it’s been in my journal as far as I can remember, so it must be important.”

Pyra freezes.

_She… didn’t write about it? That night…_

It must be a misunderstanding. Maybe she overlooked that entry.

_Ask her, then!_

Is that what you really want, Mythra?

_I don’t know…_

Brighid sits down beside Mòrag on a half-buried piece of driftwood. Nia is scooping the stew into bowls and balancing them on Dromarch’s head and back for him to deliver to everyone, already chatting away and oblivious to Mythra’s distress and confusion. The practiced smile Pyra wears hides any hint of it; she goes to help Nia, exchanging a few friendly words without really hearing herself. Mòrag and Brighid are stuck in her peripheral vision.

Oh.

_She was going to give her answer after our battle with Malos. But you know how things turned out._

Yeah.

_… Doesn’t matter. She’s not the same Brighid I knew._

But they both watch the way Brighid’s hand passes over Mòrag’s arm, and the way she sits comfortably close to her Driver, adoration practically saturated in her body language in every interaction with Mòrag. It’s subtle. Nobody else notices. But it’s there. The old Brighid would never have sat with Hugo like that, as if he were a friend instead of her respected liege. The old Brighid would never be so serene and even-tempered. That’s not the Blade who lifted her chin at everyone and tested Mythra’s patience and limits.

This Brighid is... already in love.

No, she’s the same.

_Is she?_

People change when they’re surrounded by good influences. Isn’t that what happened with Addam? With everyone else? But in the end, at their very core, they will always be the same person they’ve always been.

_It’s just hard to accept._

Yes, it is.


End file.
